Out of Rhythm
by justanotherfic
Summary: Things are not the way they used to be. Takes place after Frame, but contains no spoilers.


Disclaimer: I do not own. I do not make any money. I just play a little for my own amusement.

A/N: Set after Frame, but contains no spoilers for that episode. Enjoy!

_Like a poem poorly written  
We are verses out of rhythm,  
Couplets out of rhyme,  
In syncopated time  
Lost in the dangling conversation  
And the superficial sighs,  
Are the borders of our lives_

- "The Dangling Conversation" by Paul Simon.

"You used to smile a lot," she says, not looking up from her plate. "I miss that." He doesn't answer, doesn't quite know what to say; continues to spin his fork round and round in the spaghetti noodles. She takes a few more bites, sips her beer; refuses to look at him.

"I always thought things would turn out differently…" She looks out the window; he stops spinning his fork. "You know… _everything_; not just…" She trails off, her hand caught in the air between them, mid-gesture. She silently folds it back in her lap. He fiddles with the fork in his hand. The spaghetti noodles slip off. He clears his throat awkwardly. Her kitchen clock ticks.

"And I… I mean, I get why things are… why it's not the same. I do. I really do." Her voice is soft, quiet. He focuses on her finger tracing the rim of her glass. "I just, you know… I miss it." He looks up at her quickly; she's gazing out the window again. He thinks that she's talking as much about their failed partnership as she is about her life. Her fingers are picking at the table cloth absently. He wants to hold them still; wants to just simply hold them.

"Why are you still here?" He needs to ask it; has wanted to for a long time. But he dreads the answer. She meets his gaze hesitantly.

"I don't know." It's an honest statement. Her lips twitch into the shadow of a smile. "I keep thinking things will be like before. The way I wanted them to be." She picks up her glass, drinks a little. He watches her; feeling oddly relieved. He turns back to his spaghetti.

"You know," she says a while later; he stops chewing, swallows almost compulsively. His throat hurts a little. "I used to think I loved you." She pauses, "Before." He's not sure if this connects to what she said earlier. He's also not sure how it makes him feel. He looks at her, she looks away. "And I used to think that maybe you loved me too." She looks up, meets his gaze again. "You never did, did you?" He doesn't know how to answer that; doesn't know how she wants him to reply. All he knows is that he wants to hold her, feel her in his arms, against his chest. Just once. She smiles a little. "It's okay, you know." Her voice is soft and her fingers brush over his knuckles. He closes his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he offers finally. Her hand is resting back in her lap again, but he wants to feel her skin. He seeks her gaze, but she isn't looking his way. "I'm sorry," he says again and she nods. He wants to tell her that it's not because she's right. He's sorry because he does love her. He's sorry because he knows she won't feel the same again. He's sorry because he wants to tell her that, to make it all a little better somehow. But there are no words.

She sighs a little and sips her beer. He looks down, spins his fork round and round in the spaghetti noodles and busies himself with not speaking.

He does her dishes, even though she's got a dishwasher and it's late and he should be going home. She doesn't comment when he starts tapping the water and adding liberal amounts of washing-up liquid. She just grabs the kitchen towel from its hook on the side of the fridge and waits; automatically reaching out for every finished glass and plate and piece of cutlery. Neither of them speaks.

He thinks of a time when there was no silence; when every second was filled with conversation or laughter or at least some sort of noisy gesture. When she would talk to him about her family and her nephew; when she would joke and he would laugh and her eyes would sort of glitter. He can't remember the last time she told him about her nephew or the oftentimes boisterous family gatherings. He can't recall the last time her sarcastic remarks were made to make him laugh, or the last time he even dared to smile at them. He knows that he used to joke himself, used to make her smile with some random fact or useless piece of trivia. And sometimes he wants to do it again; sometimes he thinks that maybe that is what they need, for one of them to break the status quo. But then he'll see her with other people and she'll be laughing and smiling and talking. And just like that all his courage will disappear and he'll be outright terrified that maybe she won't smile, maybe she won't laugh, maybe she'll just look at him, frown and walk away.

So, evidently, it's just easier not to talk. Or, rather, to just talk about the job. To fill long car rides with talks of victims and suspects and motives. To not ride alone with her in the lift down to the garage. To make his own way to work. To just not _ask_. Because he's pretty sure that he won't like the answer. Or the lack of it.

She hangs the kitchen towel back on the designated hook as he drains the water from the sink. He shakes the foam from his hands and wipes off the excess water on the front of his jeans. Her mouth opens slightly; he knows she's going to ask him to leave.

"I should go," he says quickly, gesturing in the general direction of her front door, beating her to it. He starts gathering the files they brought with them to discuss, placing them in a neat pile with his binder on top. "Thank you for making dinner." He ducks his head a little, pauses and then leaves the kitchen.

Her hand is warm as it wraps around his wrist and he stops immediately. She tugs on his arm to make him turn around. He complies; her fingers are just so warm against his pulse point that he can't refuse. Her hand trails up his arm, quick, feathery light, and her fingers curl into his hair. He stoops, involuntarily almost; baffled. Standing on tip-toes she brushes her lips against his. Briefly, softly. He wraps his arms around her, to help her keep her balance. To make sure she doesn't go away.

"I miss it," she whispers, her breath hot against his neck. "I miss _you_." He holds her tighter; closes his eyes. "Stay a while, okay?" He nods against the top of her head; knows that he probably couldn't go even if he wanted to.

"As long as you want, Eames," he promises earnestly. "As long as you want."


End file.
